Popsicles

Last night, I assisted my friend Cristina in making dinner. They had just built a new bamboo and reed outside-kitchen (after their old one was destroyed by a wind storm) so I was helping to inaugurate it. They had strung a light bulb outside so we were enjoying a nice, leisurely few hours of watching leaves cook down and corn flour become the corn-paste-ball-things that Mozambicans love so much. Cristina is one of my students but also my best friend in Invinha, and her husband is a teacher at my school. Her husband once told me the story of his life: essentially, he grew up super poor about 100km from Gurue and during the civil war, as a child, he walked with his family 250km to the nearest refugee camp to get some food and clothes. Now, he has a great job with a beautiful wife and daughter (though he did impregnate Cristina, when she was a student of his…). Cristina is incredibly patient with my cultural and linguistic mishaps and loves to hear about America. As she removed a pot of boiling water from the coal stove with her bare hands, I gasped to make her laugh and commented on how I am weak because my hands would not be able to handle that. She then made an extremely adept anthropological and cultural observation that resonated with me: “Well, you can put ice in your mouth without suffering and I can touch hot pots.” Cristina grew up in the bush a few hours away, without electricity, and therefore without the ability to make ice, and so she can’t manage the cold like I can, someone who grew up with popsicles. I have grown accustomed to pot holders and therefore my fingers can’t hang with the heat. Well put, Cristina.

Speaking of popsicles, we then began to make some Mozambican ones. Cristina started this business last week and swears to me it has already been lucrative. She mixes juice powder with dirty river water, scoops it into plastic sleeves and ties the top. They spend the night in the freezer, and then a young girl (who I refer to in my head as her “child slave,” though it is culturally normative to hire a girl from the bush to do your bitch-work if you have any sort of monetary means to do so) sells them at the market for a met a piece to thirsty and sweaty passers-by. You bite a hole into the bottom of the plastic baggie and it is near heaven on a hot day. The girl, by the way as Cristina informed me, makes 50mt a month for sitting at the market all day. That is less than $2 for a month’s work. Oy.

I was eager to help Cristina in her popsicle-making business because of what she explained to me a few weeks ago: her husband leaves her some change on the chair in their bedroom on the days she should buy food. When he doesn’t leave her money for whatever reason, she is shit out of luck. One day, she confided in me that her husband had not left her any money and so she didn’t know what she was going to make for dinner. I mean come on dude, dish out a few mets for your wife to make you leaves in a broth of tomatoes, onions, and salt. Apparently this is a typical wife-husband interaction and so I was thrilled that Cristina was starting to do something towards some financial independence.

As I commented on how proud I was of her, the conversation then turned to one of the other students in Cristina’s class, Amede. To put it nicely, I do not like this kid. And he is not even a kid; he is married with 2 children of his own. He’s a drunk: he showed up wasted a few times to my afternoon classes and totally caused a scene. When I brought him to the dean, the dean said he would take care of it, and then he just let it slide. Cristina told me how Amede beats his wife and she keep going back to him. As I attempted to explain the idea of battered woman syndrome and how it is normal for women to have trouble leaving their abusive partners, and that maybe she needs some help to do so from a good person like Cristina, Cristina assured me that it was of no use. I attribute this to a cultural disparity and not a lack of caring. But it is still devastating, as this guy was my student last year and I failed him since he never comes to class or turns in any work, and is continuing the trend into this year. As a foreigner, there isn’t much I can do to help his wife, who Cristina says is super thin because Amede spends all their money on beer, and not food. And it’s not like there is any social support for women in this situation here, so after our dinner of leaves and corn mush, I came home in a somber mood. 

Happy Birthday Hermínio

A few weeks ago, one of my best and favorite students invited me to his 17th birthday party, through a “formal” invitation that he had scrawled out on a piece of printer paper. Now, I would assume that in America, this would be wildly inappropriate, regardless of gender equivalence, and especially in this case, when they didn’t match. But seeing as many male teachers hold hands at school and have sex after school with 15 year-old female students in Mozambique, I figured I could stop by a male students party to say hi. Except that I forgot about the party until yesterday, when the kid, Hermínio, dropped by to borrow my masking tape and remind me about the party. “Teacher, come you today?” he attempted in English. I scoured my brain for the appropriate response to his valiant effort at communication and replied that of course I would. I anticipated an awkward few hours, and I was right.

The party was due to start at 5pm, so I left my house at 6pm. And it got dark on me fast. Before I had even left my neighborhood, it was pitch black, but I was committed to my gander through the bush to his house. I had his present in my hand and didn’t want to disappoint him; Hermínio was such a sweet kid. But here’s a thinker: what do you bring to the birthday party of your student that lives in the Mozambican bush? I didn’t have any flour and you can’t buy flour in Invinha, so I couldn’t make a cake, my usual go to in situations like this since I enjoy giving people their first taste of chocolate cake. So I pulled out an old Swiss army knife, wrapped it in printer paper, wrote “Happy Birthday Hermínio” on it, and off I went.

And I was quickly lost. I had been to his house before in the daylight, but a dark, starless night offered a different experience. I stumbled upon a few families cooking dinner on some firewood, tripped over the crevices and cracks of the dirt path, and finally made it 45 minutes later. And the smile on Hermínio’s face was ear to ear. I gave him his gift and told him to come by my house the next day so I could explain what it was and how to use it. He then led me inside, past some people who I greeted but couldn’t see their faces, and told me to sit on a reed mat. So I sat.

And sat.

I sat next to a nine year-old girl and the two year-old she had strapped to her, neither of whom spoke Portuguese. So I let my eyes wander. And everything started coming together: a few months ago, Hermínio had borrowed a People magazine circa 2007 from my house, and today he had borrowed tape. When he returned the magazine, it had seemed a little thinner than normal, but I didn’t pay much attention. Now I saw pictures of Johnny Depp and ads for body soap plastered all over the mud-brick walls of his “living room.” But it was tastefully done and he had written some congratulatory messages in chalk on the individual bricks. Hermínio had even borrowed a battery-powered lantern for the event. I’m not sure what I expected from the birthday party of my teenage student who lives off the food his family grows, but perhaps a battery-powered radio emitting static like you often hear in the bush would have livened up the party. And why you would have a nighttime party when you don’t have electricity is beyond me. But though the party was far from raging, I was proud of the kid; he did a good job. 

What seemed like years later, some super bush women walked in and Hermínio gave himself a birthday toast. He then asked if anyone had anything to add, and since no one spoke up and I felt bad for the kid, I stood up to announce how smart and how hard-working he was, and then, in a tip of the hat to my grandpa Art, I made him state his goals for the coming year.

Then it was time to eat. I knew what would ensue and I was nervous about it. Hermínio explained what he had prepared (coconut rice, rice with tomatoes and Mozambican bay leaves, beans, and meat and potato “stew”), overall, a commanding feast. Then he immediately handed me a plate, indicating I was to serve first. Despite my protests that it was his day and that perhaps the other women should go before me, I still found myself awkwardly facing the spread alone and before the other guests, assuredly because I was seen as the most important guest on account of being a teacher, and of course, because I am white. I was uncomfortable and dished out the teeniest spoonful of each item, figuring that the other guests probably needed the protein more than I did. Hermínio then served everyone else heaping plates and we ate. I was the only guest provided with cup of juice and a fork. I handed my fork to the woman next to me, the juice to her child, and ate with my fingers, Moz style.

Soon enough, I decided to leave, and Hermínio accompanied me home, as is the custom. I bid him happy birthday and threw myself to bed. All the birthday sitting had wiped me out.

It is September, meaning we are at the bridge between the two southern African seasons: dry and rainy. It has rained only a few times in the past 6 months, transforming the dirt roads into veritable dust clouds, and meaning that I could sweep constantly, all day, and not keep up with the influx of dust. Everything is covered in dust: my computer, my clothes drying on the line, my face, my feet. In their true, dramatic style, Mozambicans are frequently claiming, “We are suffering and dying from dust.” But I now have a new topic of conversation to invoke on chapas: Mozambicans love to break awkward silences by mentioning the name of the city or town we are in, or at this time of year, simply stating “poeira” (“dust”), letting the “ah” sounds hang in the air a while. It is also burning season, where people start fires to raze their fields, the easiest yet the most destructive method of preparing for next years planting season. Most people live in thatched roof houses, and sit idly by as their violent fires inch ever closer. I think most PCVs have had students say that they missed class because their house burnt down, which I guess is a worthy excuse. At night you can see massive fires in the distance on all sides. And with the wind that marks this time of year, veritable dust storms and mini-tornadoes arise, and bring dust and burnt plant matter into my house via my roof. Remind me of my complaints when the rain starts and I transfer my grievances to the mud that gets everywhere.

I went to say goodbye to my host family last week, and though my host father is now unemployed since the owner of his bakery closed up shop indefinitely, my host mother has started raising chickens. She has over 250 of them and is almost ready to sell them, which will bring in a magnificent income. During the last few weeks of training when I lived with them, my host mother and I had discussed her dream to raise and sell chickens, and at the time, my inexperience had prevented me from helping. Since then, she has built a concrete coop with her own hands, and borrowed money at low interest to buy her first installment of chicks. She has accomplished her dream, and I am immensely proud.

Hermínio literally just stopped by to get his Swiss army knife demo, and he eyes almost popped out of his head. On this list of things I will miss from Peace Corps: shocking and impressing people with the simplicities.

Highlight of 2012

Highlight of 2012: my sister’s visit to Invinha last month. Everyone
loved it: all my neighbors, students, coworkers, etc kept saying how
beautiful she was and how they were so happy for her visit. We road in
chapas and hitchhiked, ate good food, went to class, town, the
hospital, and just hung out. I stepped in human feces near the trash
pit, and we trudged to clean it in the river. Welcome to Peace Corps.
For weeks afterwards, people would ask me enthusiastically, in one
long stream of inquiries, not waiting for an answer before continuing:
“How is you sister? She already left? Is she back home in America? How
is her husband? When will she return?” I got to show off my life and I
think we will both remember it for a long time.

Even after 23 months in Mozambique (can ya believe it?!), however, I
guess there are still some things to learn: apparently, according to
each and every person that I introduced Emily to, weight is positively
correlated with age. Without exception, the second question people
would ask when I “presented” her, after “What is her name?” was “Who
is older?” And when I would reply, “She is. 7 years older in fact,”
all veritable hell would break loose. “Noooo! That can’t be,
professora. You are so much fatter, so you must be older!” Funny the
first time, it quickly got old, and offensive. But I guess, in their
eyes, women gain weight once they start bearing children, so the older
you get, the more children you have, and concomitantly, the more
weight you gain. They thought we were crazy: we don’t have any
brothers (your father only has 2 children? And 2 girls at that?!), and
neither of us have any children (she is married but doesn’t have
children?!). The perfect opportunities arose to interject the benefits
of family planning into daily conversation.

One thing Emily commented on, interestingly, was how much less sad
being here was. Yes people are poor, but once you get to know them and
how they live, once you get past the differences in how things look
(clothes, building materials, roads, etc), it is easy to forget where
you are and what is reality. She said that most people would assume
that the living conditions are what make it hard to live in Africa.
But not having running water really wasn’t that crazy or challenging.
It is the differences in culture, having people take advantage of you,
perceptions of foreigners and what they are here to do, and missing
people back home that is tough.

This last sentiment has been demonstrated first hand this past week. A
group of Portuguese scouts are here in Invinha, staying at the nuns.
Some are working on improving the electricity in the school and
hospital, some are fixing computers in the computer lab, some are
making a concrete path for when the kids ride their bicycles onto
school grounds, some are ostensibly helping out at the hospital. They
are all earnestly buying and passing out bread. It’s all fine and
good. Except that practically our whole training in Peace Corps is
about including host country nationals in everything, attempting to be
as sustainable as possible in our work, and not just being about the
money or what you can give away. So it is interesting to witness a
whole other approach to helping out. This is the kind of help many
people have grown accustomed to and want in Mozambique, and presumably
other countries crippled and dependent on foreign aid, because they
actually don’t have to do anything to reap the benefits of the aid and
get free shit. But when the computer breaks again next year, who will
fix it? Alas, that requires forethought. I even had another teacher
come up to me yesterday, and say, “See those white people are really
helping. That is what you should do, use your money to actually help
our school.” I guess the events Peace Corps Volunteers put on with
counterparts to discuss self-esteem, HIV, and positive life choices
with students, the fact that we require dedication, sticking to your
word, and showing up from people we work with, and all the other less
glamorous, more subtle ways PCVs attempt to help are lost on some
people.

I also started assistant-coaching the girl’s soccer team at my school.
Plainly put, we suck; we are absolutely horrible. In our first 2
games, we lost 6-0 and 5-0 respectively, but hey, if the pattern
holds, maybe in 5 more games we will tie. It is not surprising we are
so bad: we are that small school from the boonies attempting to hang
with the teams from the big city that are fed by schools 8 times the
size of ours. Until now I had not really delved into the world of
sports in Mozambique. Apparently, rewarding good attendance at
practice with playing time during games (though that is often the case
in America), being a team-player (and not yelling at your teammates
for their mistakes), listening to your coach (instead of flirting with
the boys team; then again, they are in high school…), words of
encouragement (fans constantly berated our low skill level), and
breaking it all down to basics (when you can’t pass with your left
foot, perhaps we should work on that before headers) are not worthy
aspects of athletic participation here. But I kinda suspected and
anticipated many of these disparities and more. So I go to practice
when I can, attempt to give specific yet motivating feedback, and make
them run (though your sub-par girl’s soccer team in Mozambique
definitely has a higher fitness level than an American equivalent
because they are accustomed to carrying water on their heads for
kilometers at a time and pounding grain all day). I think the girls
like my being there, and hopefully we will score our first goal
sometime soon.

And as much as I have bitched and complained, and threatened to quit,
now that I have been in Mozambique for 23 months (3 more to go!), I
can say one thing: it has been worth it, for my personal development
at least; I do not feel comfortable venturing such a bold statement
regarding my impact on the development of Invinha and the other places
I have been and people I have met. My friend, a volunteer from an
earlier Moz group, said the following, eloquently put yet a little bit
unexpected at first glance, “If Peace Corps Volunteers come back to
America as better people after their service, Peace Corps has done its

job.” After all, it is America paying for us to be here, so if
thousands of 20-something professionals come back with 2 years of
experience abroad, a broader worldview, and a plethora of intangible
skills like problem solving and adaptability, America will benefit.
And if a few of the kids I have worked with remember that crazy white
lady, Teacher Ana, who gave out paper and colored pencils to draw on,
who ran in short shorts every afternoon, who yelled at them for being
late to class, who once brought macaroons to class around Passover,
then that is alright too. The 114th and most recent book I have read
in Mozambique, Lies My Teacher Told Me, discusses the Peace Corps for
an entire paragraph, mostly saying that the agency is unworthy of
mention in history textbooks (I’m not saying I disagree) as it has
been wholly insignificant in shaping history, but “it does not
disparage [the] fine institution to admit that its main impact has
been on the intellectual development of its own volunteers.”

Lake Malawi

A few weeks ago, I lead a conference for girls between the ages of 12 and 20 that live in Mozambique’s northern provinces as well as their girl’s group leaders. Mostly we just discussed sexual health, how to prepare for your future, and how to stand up for yourself. It was, almost, really awesome. A few hiccups that probably wouldn’t have taken place at a similar event in the US: two 12 year olds left their sink on all night because they didn’t know how to use one, thereby wasting all the water in the big water tank and leaving us without access to water for a rather extended period of time; a volunteer and a participant got malaria; people complained about their travel per diem (free money!); on the truck ride home, a girl had an epileptic-esque episode and everyone blew it off that she was ok, just, merely, possessed by a demon (no big); and 4 people of the 21 people that got tested for HIV (participants and facilitators) tested positive. I was, obviously, devastated at the news. I have no idea who these women/girls are, as the tests are confidential, but the percentage is staggering. But then again, I guess it makes the whole conference and all the prep headaches worth it for 4 people to learn their status, and therefore hopefully get some treatment and live a longer, healthier life. But still, not the stats you want at a girls’ empowerment workshop. Overall, however, it was the culmination of this year’s work for me and I was pleased with what the girls learned and will hopefully utilize in their lives and communities.

As a reward, I went to Lake Malawi after the conference with some fellow volunteers. Malawi is awesome. It is dirt cheap and downright beautiful. Lake Malawi (or Lago Niassa as it is called this side of the way), more specifically, is one of the largest fresh-water lakes in the world and boasts some of the most diverse and unique marine life around. We went to a pretty touristy place and it was weird. Not the “Africa” experience I am used to: on one side of the road that comprised the destination were lodges and backpackers and bungalows for tourists while the other was the typical Malawian experience: goats and bloated-bellied children with protruding bellybuttons from poor umbilical chord removal running everywhere, mud-huts, small shops that sell soap and candles, and people selling their extra crop on the street. It was quite the dichotomy. We sat with our feet up taking in the majestic lake while women and girls washed clothes and dishes in the lake two feet away. It was also interesting to see how the community has been affected by tourism: some kids sat on their front porch and played homemade guitars, yelling: “Take photo! You hear!” because they have obviously grabbed the attention of many a foreigner in the past and received small coins in return for their cuteness. At one point, we decided to go to the market to buy some bananas and sandals. Everyone we asked for directions, average Malawians, told us it was really far and we wouldn’t make it. It was not that far in reality and we did succeed, though probably some of the only tourists to leave the tourist bubble, as people didn’t really know how to handle us once we arrived. We all decided we felt more at home at the market than perusing the ebony and rosewood paraphernalia that people catered for tourists on the side of the road near our hostel. The owners of the hostel where we stayed also probably thought we were the cheapest mother-fuckers ever. The sign out front claimed to be the best value in town so, clearly, on our $200/month living allowance, we chose it. We ate peanut butter and bread for at least one meal a day, asked to do our own laundry instead of paying their staff to do it (their faces when I asked for a bucket to use in the lake were priceless), and we brought back the Malawian beer one night instead of buying the Danish beer that though bottled in Malawi, is “expensive.” This Malawi beer, however, was awful. Called Chibuku (Shake-Shake in Chichewa, the Malawian local language), it is basically fermented corn: a thick, foul-tasting, vomit-esque liquid that is sold in one-liter cartons for 50 cents. You drink it as if taking a swig from a milk carton and one sip in, we all decided, well that was fun, and dejectedly caved into splurging for the Danish Carlsberg, offering the local beer to a random dude. Needless to say, we did not fit in with the rest of the young, traveling crowd, but we had a blast anyway. We went snorkeling and kayaking, and forgot all the crap we had been dealt during the conference. This is my pitch for a Malawian vacation.

Another pitch for travel in south-eastern Africa: I finally got to watch Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations” episode on Mozambican food and culture. He boasts that Mozambique has the best food that he has eaten in all of Africa, which I wouldn’t doubt for a second (thanks to awesome seafood, a plethora of coconut-inspired dishes, and piri-piri (spicy) grilled chicken), and he shares some great visual shots of and interviews about the real Mozambique. Though his rather harsh commentary on Portuguese colonialism and the rebel group Renamo is only mostly deserved (and his impressions of Frelimo, the political group in power since independence, are more than a tab idealistic), he paints a slightly forlorn portrait of poverty in Mozambique. Yes, people are extremely poor. Yes, people live without running water, electricity, and grocery stores. But, to quote my sister who visited last week, people make it work and just go on living their lives. African poverty is generally less sad in real life than it is usually depicted through film and photographs. But Bourdain did take care to include how downright nice and welcoming and peaceful Mozambicans are, all undoubtedly deserved appellations. And he did ultimately claim that the hostility of many recently post-civil war African countries is nonexistent here, giving Mozambique a bright future, which is definitely true in my experience. If you want a taste of this, usually, fantastic country, definitely try to get your hands on a copy of the show.

Our copy machine finally arrived, but it was not the warm welcome I had anticipated. First, the teachers all individually commented that the machine was old and ugly. Well, I told them, it is second-hand because the brand-new ones were 3 times as expensive and even the money to get this second-hand one was a stretch. And the copy machine definitely performs its intended purpose: it makes copies! They still shook their heads. Then I told them that they would still have to pay for copies (though the price would be half of the price in town). WHAT!? they shrieked, this is our copy machine! Well, I replied, after we use all the initial paper and toner that our grant funds purchased, how will we buy more? They all just sat there, and I read their minds: we will wait for the next white person to buy us more.

Oh right. Duh…

But still, I think they will warm up to the copy machine once they start to see the benefits and I therefore thank everyone who contributed to this project. It will tremendously help my school for years to come as they get the copy-business underway and can use the profits to fund projects that directly profit the school and the students. Obrigada!

Nipive

As a secondary school teacher, I mostly come in contact with people who are Mozambican middle/working class (I apologize if that is politically incorrect, but it is true). The kids come from families that are somehow able to get the money together for matriculation fees, a uniform, pens, notebooks, and test costs. The kids must live close enough to (or have someone who is caring for them that lives close enough to) a secondary school to walk there and back each day, which means they can’t be too far out in the middle of nowhere (only kinda far). The teachers have some education at least and a steady job, and therefore are upper middle class usually, if not wholly upper class. But then again, many students are from families that are dirt-ass poor. These are the kids with clearly hand-me-down, faded uniforms with holes, showing up to a test without a pen. Daniel, the kid that works for me, is one such student. Now that he has a “job,” he appears to be a little more well-off, because he knows I will always give him pen and paper and I bought him new uniforms this year. But, as I learned first hand when I paid his family a visit last week, he is one of those kids doing whatever he can to get out of the situation he was born into and give back to his family.

Daniel had invited me months ago to his house, but I could never go because you can only get within 7km of his house by car on Thursdays. So finally, last Thursday, during the school break, we went. We got in a chapa going to the feira in Nipive that happens every Thursday (“feira” being big market and Nipive being his home locality, about 50km from Invinha). We got out and started our 7km trek through the bush. We passed a smattering of super spread-out mud huts and fields full of beans and mandioca. We scrambled over rock faces and over streams, until we reached Rio Licungo, a huge river that is just near his family’s house. I swear, it was idyllic. Apparently, as Daniel told me later, he was very worried that I would complain about how long the walk was, and was surprised and relieved when I didn’t. Thanks for the vote of confidence, man. We got there, and though Daniel had called someone with a phone who lives around there the day before to inform them we were coming, no one had passed on the message, so here Daniel comes striding into the yard with this white lady behind him. All trillion of his nieces and nephews came running up to hug him, as their uncle from the “big city” (Invinha being a big city because you can buy salt and onions everyday of the week!) had finally paid a visit. They were followed by a horde of female relatives. After greeting us, the women went to work to feed us. It was 8am and they labored to pound the shells off the rice from their fields, cut up fish, and wash the “fancy plates.” While they worked (I was not allowed to help), I took in the view from their reed mat. The compound had 3 one-room mud houses and a bamboo-ed cooking area, with tons of banana, orange, lemon, mango, and avocado trees. The mountains that grace Gurue district splashed the background. It was interesting to see Daniel in this environment, where he and his “big city” nature are king: he was checking in on all the kids, giving out small-value coins, sitting in a chair (while women sat on the ground), and was dressed to the nines to show off his status (in all borrowed clothes that he had told me he had ironed, though how I do not know).

Daniel’s aunt, that matriarch of the massive family, who had taken him in when his mother and father passed away, was this adorable little old woman (probably like 45-50) who I could actually talk to because she had been to a few years of school during colonial times. The 25 year-old-ish women did not speak Portuguese, so I mostly interacted with this one aunt and the bloated-belly, dressed in rags kids who were currently enrolled in primary school, but if I have learned one thing in almost 2 years as a Mozambican teacher, probably not learning much. The whole time, the aunt profusely apologized for not making a good sauce for our fish and rice because she didn’t have any oil. It was a sauce with water, salt, and tomatoes, made in one of those super old-school clay pots. I told her I didn’t like oil anyway, and that the fish was very tasty, and she seemed slightly relieved. And the fish was actually some of the best fish I have had in Mozambique (the taste most likely improved because I had walked 7km in the hot sun and because it wasn’t doused in oil like Mozambicans are prone to doing). We were also treated to mucodo, rice soaked in water, and then pounded into a crumbly yet brick-like substance with sugar. After we ate, per usual, as when I meet Mozambicans not too familiar with Americans, we went through the whole song and dance: “In your land, do you have bananas?” Yes. “Rice?” Yes. “Fish?” Yes. “Salt?” Yes. “Garlic?” Yes. “Corn?” Yes. “Xima?” Not exactly. Sad, confused face on the part of my interrogator ensues. Soon enough, it was time to head back to the feira and catch a car home. But not before the white lady handed out the stuff from the “big city” that she had brought: on Daniel’s instruction I had brought 2kg of sugar, 2 kg of salt, bricks of soap, a bag of bread rolls, and some capulana for the women. All things they can’t make at home. I had also brought snickerdoodle cookies for them to try. At first Daniel wouldn’t let me pass them out because he said they wouldn’t like them as the taste would be too foreign. But I insisted: who doesn’t like a snickerdoodle? And low and behold, they loved them. So we trudged back, with me promising to come back again with my “machine to take photos” (my camera is currently broken) and to spend the night so the aunt could teach me how to make some dish I had never heard of. I hope I get the chance. Once at the feira, I bought us some Mozambican “popsicles” (slightly frozen juice in plastic baggies), bought a cabbage from another aunt who was selling there, and bought the first aunt some clearly-desired oil. I only ran into 3 people who called me “Ingrid-ee,” after an American woman who had spent a year living in Nipive doing research on a Fulbright scholarship. I have met Ingrid and she is blonde. But all young, white woman are the same, aren’t they? Overall, it was a really great day.

Now, I lived with a Mozambican family for 3 months at the beginning of my service, but they were relatively well-off. This family was not. They literally live off what they grow and what the few older siblings that have married slightly closer to opportunities are able to send home. Daniel failed 10^th grade last year and is repeating but he is still the most educated person ever in his family. I am helping him build a house here in Invinha so he no longer has to rent (when I am gone and therefore stop paying his rent), and I told the aunt that she must send some of the younger kids to the house so they can take advantage of the slightly better primary schools and the secondary school in Invinha. We shall see what happens. I am also going to try to get one of the young girls into the girls dorm here with the nuns. She had impressed me with her addition and subtraction skills when I quizzed her. Congrats Juleca.

Only recently have I been witnessing the poorer, and more prevalent, Mozambique up close. It is easy to forget in the education bubble that even though my students seem illiterate and at times utterly hopeless, they are still probably some of the most literate and with the most opportunities in their entire families. Many of the women giving birth at the hospital have definitely not gone to school and are from butt-fuck nowhere, but are doing the best they can. Daniel’s family graciously took me in and showed their gratitude for giving Daniel a job and house (the aunt bowed to me when I gave her a capulana. Awkward).

And finally, my favorite relative I met that day was one brother-in-law we saw in the road. (Daniel has only 2 sisters yet like 5 brothers-in-law; clearly their term is more inclusive than ours because though men can multiple wives, women are bound to one man). This guy must have some sort of miniscule income. Note the outfit: he had on bright pink pants, a yellow polo that said “Chloe” on the pocket, a checkered tie, one glove, a faded Cincinnati Bengals beanie, and he was carrying a white, pleather purse. Stylin’

But in good news, some genius finally learned how to fix the water pump. Apparently, there was something blocking the water in the pipe. For 5 months. But now it is clean and working like a charm.

The Train

It is rumored by some fellow PCVs that Mozambique runs one of the only passenger trains left in this part of Africa. I have been reading my Mozambique guidebooks and have not found anything to confirm this, but I do know that the train I took last week is AWESOME.

Mozambique is a large country, with most of its area stretching from north to south, with most of the development in the south, stemming from bustling Maputo, the capital, which lies practically on the country’s southern border with South Africa. Most of the traffic and roads that are passable and frequented take people in this longitude-direction. In the far north, there are not many paved roads and a promising throughway east to west is only traversable with a private car, and even then, not at all times of year. Because of all this, the train, which takes you from Nampula (Mozambique’s third largest city and about 150-200km from a large industrial port on the Indian Ocean) west to Cuamba (an extremely dusty, wild-west-esque town that lies at the south of a province that is mostly pure bush and wild reserves, but which also borders Malawi and Lake Malawi). Therefore, this form of transport is highly utilized by people wanting to travel east to west, and it brings a lot of produce and other goodies to this more humble, northern part of the country. One of the PCVs that live in Cuamba is a walking billboard for the train, so a few friends and I decided to take it, and then visit the famously beautiful lake.

We got to the train station at 4am with our second-class tickets in hand. Second-class is the highest class offered, and sometimes it is not even an option. Third-class is much cheaper, but you are packed in on hard wooden benches, well over-capacity, and with ever-accumulating sacks of onions, beans, corn, and more. So we broke the bank and spent the extra $8 to travel in the “lap of luxury:” second-class. We were three people, and got our own little room with a futon-like padded bed/seat. We spent the 11-hour ride lounging with our feet up, playing cards, drinking beer, and eating the food that could be bought through the window at every stop. Or we could often be found standing in the hallway, with our heads out the window, taking in the breathtaking, mountainous scenery. The train traveled at a grand-spanking 30-40mph and had some technical problems, but we didn’t care. Honestly, it was the most comfortable travel experience I have ever had (there is even a cantina that sells beer and half-chicken with fried potatoes! Imagine that, Mozambique). Yes, on a 10-hour international flight, you now get your own personal TV and movie selection, and free drinks, but you are still sitting immobile in a 2ft by 2ft box when in economy class. This was like having our own living room as we rumbled, grumbled, and bumped along, with the whole 2 cars we witnessed on the adjacent road all day, easily passing us (it is the dry season, however, and thus the roads are a little easier to maneuver). Some of the train stops are probably only denoted by an interesting looking-tree, but others have cement 1-room stations. At every stop, there are women and children selling food through the windows: large, discounted quantities of tomatoes, carrots, and onions; huge sacks of who knows what; and snacks, which we eagerly bought up: boiled eggs, roasted peanuts, tangerines, oranges, bananas, bread, Mozambican falafel, etc. I. LOVE. THE. TRAIN. Really though, the train should be featured on a travel show, and should be a hit with the truly fledgling tourist-industry here.

I have also been continuing to volunteer at the hospital, and every time, I notice new things. The women bring these forms to their pre-natal visits, of which they usually get 1 or 2 during their pregnancies, and children have cards to keep track of weight, vaccinations, de-worming meds, vitamin A doses, etc. And it makes sense, there are no computers to store the information, but on the other hand, the majority of the people frequenting a health posts out in the bush are illiterate. They don’t know their age, which is why women with 7 children will say they are 20 years old, they rarely speak Portuguese, and they cannot read or understand the date that is listed for them to return for their next consult. But what are Irma and I to do? Neither of us is from northern Zambézia (Irma is from a neighboring province) and therefore we don’t speak the local language. So we try our best. As opposed to the education system, I believe that even a half-assed health system is better than nothing. Even if all we accomplished in five hours was giving 30 babies vaccines against polio and giving out 30 packets of birth control (to women who think they don’t have to take it on days they don’t have sex or if their husband if not there, because they don’t understand the instructions we give them…), that is still something important. Even if the infant or maternal mortality rate is lowered only by 1% because of this health post, its existence and the work the small staff does are justified. But I have recently had an internal debate. Apparently, the measles vaccine, once the bottle is opened, must be administered that same day. So if they only administer 2 doses out of a 10-dose bottle, they have wasted 8 whole vaccines and run out before their new Ministry of Health/UniCef shipment. So they implemented a new system: they only offer the measles vaccine on Fridays. At first glance, this seems to make sense. But everyday, women come in from 3 hours away to get the vaccine and Irma tells them to come back on Friday. Now, even if they understood the words Irma said, because they attended at least some school, they inevitably don’t have anything that tells them the date at home. So I assume many do not come back on the right day and many babies are without the measles vaccine even though the health post has it in stock. So which is better: giving out the vaccine everyday and running out before the end of each month because of the wasted doses, or only giving it out to the people who happen to be there on Fridays? Which system inoculates more babies? I am truly searching for an answer. Yet it seems to be a veritable conundrum that can only be solved with a statistical study that I have no desire to instigate.

I asked Irma why women come from so far to the Invinha health post when they have them in other towns nearby. Her answer: 1. They like to have a nun around and 2. Because our health post employees steal less of the medications than they give out. Apparently, other health workers throughout the country (and I assume the continent) steal the meds and sell them to people who need them at a higher price than the almost miniscule fee they are supposed to give them out for at the health post. The supply runs out quickly and only those with money are getting meds. Invinha is famous for actually giving out vaccines and medications, and only stealing a little. I’m glad that is the bar upon which a trustworthy, health center is judged at.

In the US, I feel like doctors, nurses, and family members are very supportive and encouraging of a woman in labor. Here, they are not. They leave them be and really the only interaction between nurse or traditional midwife and patient is to check how many centimeters she is. So here I come, white, with no nursing experience, and I am holding women’s hands and telling them things I think might motivate them about how great they are doing. And every single time, Irma, the other female nurse, and the 2 traditional midwives laugh and make fun of me. And I only slightly care because I just can’t sit back and watch women in pain, screaming in Elomwe about who knows what, without trying to give them some support. Here, the family members that come with the women to the health post to give birth (friend, sister, mother, aunt, or other random female relative) must stay outside, shooting the shit with the other relatives-in-waiting, cooking over fires, and only entering the birthing room to give sips of water and capulana to the screeching women. But they form a small community out there, as I assume men in the 50s in the US did, though instead of cigars and scotch, they have corn mush and sugar cane.

 I would like to dedicate this post to my grandma Ruth, a true matriarch, and an absolutely incredible grandmother, mother, wife, and so much more. I love you and miss you and am doing my best to approximate a version of the world´s best stuffing.

BABIES!

Well today, 4^th of July, I delivered 2 babies.

I have recently been helping out one of the nuns that is a nurse in her shifts at the health post. Usually, I just help vaccinate babies, give out birth control, and give brief pre-natal visits (which solely includes an HIV test and measuring their bellies). I prefer this side of the 6-room health post because I get to play with babies and see super pregnant women who walked on foot for hours from deep in the bush (some of which are my old students who dropped out of school after becoming pregnant). The other side of the health post is where the sick people go. Who would want to deal with babies with diarrhea or old men with worms oozing from their wounds when they could play with healthy babies and laugh after watching super bush women stare at the scale and be scared to step on it or to stand on it completely in the wrong way? It is also awesome to witness women that, when asked how many children they have given birth to, say “João, António, Maria, Octávio” and then show you five fingers. Or to hear the argument that ensues among the women waiting with their babies in the hall after someone has responded to the question “when was the baby born?” with the answer “day 33.” Irma Laurinda (the nun who is a nurse) lets me give vitamin A drops to babies, administer the polio vaccine (again, giving drops to babies), and measure the pregnant ladies’ bellies. Many of the women have scars in sets of three lines or in patterns on their thighs and abdomens that I meant to ask Irma about as we walked home, but I forgot. I assume they are either part of an initiation rite for young girls or a “treatment” from a traditional healer. I will keep you posted. Irma says soon I will graduate to injections. Aside from the fact that I have absolutely no medical training, the fact that I am white and a college grad apparently deems me sufficiently qualified for such tasks in the eyes of the staff at a rural, supply-less health post in the middle of Mozambique.

But today, I delivered 2 babies.

Irma was on baby-delivery duty today so I tagged along. There were four women in the room, all laying there mostly naked on hard beds with no sheets, blankets, or pillows, and all moaning at different frequencies. In a mandate of utter cruelty, the women in the early stages of labor must watch the women in total agony two feet away. One woman was wrapped so tightly in her capulana to try to block out the noise and to attempt to not witness her inevitable fate, I thought she might suffocate. Another woman had come in to get a routine pre-natal consult and Irma realized this lady was about to give birth right then so off we went to deliver. This woman, I never knew her name since she didn’t speak a lick of Portuguese, had previously birthed 8 other children, 5 of whom were still alive. Now, the Mozambican bedside manner is nonexistent, so while Irma chastised the lady for being lazy and not “giving enough force,” I held her hand and told her I believed in her and all that other mushy shit I thought might motivate her through the pain. And had she understood a word of my Portuguese, perhaps I would have helped. But I do know she appreciated my presence on some level because when I had briefly run over to where another lady on the verge of giving birth was screaming on the other side of the room, she yelled something I didn’t understand and motioned for me to come back. So I stayed by her side and wiped the sweat from her face on the capulana she had brought with her to the “hospital” (giving birth in Mozambique is BYO because you must bring your own sheets, baby-swaddling stuff, and post-partum diaper paraphernalia). And finally, after crapping all over the bed, bleeding uncontrollably, and splaying fluid everywhere (which I realize is normal, but no one seemed too concerned about the fact that she was lying right on top of the mattress that the next woman in labor would use), my new best friend gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. “CONGRATULATIONS! IT’S A GIRL!” I yelled and she kinda grunted unhappily, not too interested in holding her daughter. I, on the other hand, ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the baby for about 45 minutes. Irma kept saying that the lady should name her Ana after me, but seeing as the lady didn’t understand us, I would bet that didn’t actually happen. But then immediately, with almost no warning, the other lady gave birth to a huge baby boy. “CONGRATULATIONS! IT’S A BOY!” I yelled, and the new mother, as this was her first, bluntly said, “A man? Damn. A man was what has made me suffer and now I have another man to take care of.” Point. Well. Taken.

Overall, it was awesome. I was there on a good day: all the mothers and babies lived. Apparently, that squigy ball thing that is used to take fluid from the babies’ noses has been misplaced for some time at this health post, and a lot of babies are dying because of it. Apparently, this is not something that comes in the monthly supply box. But not today did anyone succumb to this ridiculous and preventable death. (I have asked my sister to bring a box of these things when she comes to visit at the end of the month so the problem will temporarily be solved then). But the experience really made me think: here are these women, giving birth with no fetal monitors, no epidurals, not much sanitation, no doctors, no family members allowed in, no fucking sheets on their beds, squeezed in one room with all the other women in labor, with their vaginas out for the world to see through the windows, and they are birthing beautiful babies. At least a lot of the time. High-risk pregnancies are sent to the city, but still it is crazy to realize how natural the whole process is when in the US, it seems very scientific. When my new best friend’s baby had its head out, I literally froze, thinking “I can’t touch it, I don’t know what I am doing!” but I later realized that was stupid. I had on gloves and a mask and all I really had to do was gently ease her out. But I was concerned at that moment about not fucking it all up and wrapping the umbilical chord around the baby’s neck or something. Maybe next time I will actually “receive” the baby. Irma then regaled me over our late-afternoon “lunch” about women who routinely come running into the “hospital” bleeding everywhere and clutching a 20 minute-old baby: “I didn’t make it and gave birth in the middle of the road!” they yell. And about the women who give birth on their dirt floors because their husband and their friends are all out at the moment. She must cut the chord herself, and then trudge hours to on foot to the hospital. These stories and the poverty they represent, and not actually seeing all the blood and gore of a baby being born are what make me sick to my stomach.

Unfortunately, this was also the first day that a woman we had been giving a pre-natal visit to came back with a positive HIV test. I will never forget her face. She was young and beautiful, slightly cross-eyed from needing but never having had the means to buy glasses, and wearing a bright green shirt that said, no joke, “I am a sex god.” She just broke down upon hearing the news. In a crazy twist of emotions, this was only about an hour before I held a healthy newborn in my arms. As an education volunteer, I know people who are HIV positive, but unlike health volunteers, my daily work doesn’t revolve around it. So I was not prepared. But I don’t think that hearing someone deliver that news is something anyone is ever prepared for.

Last week, two of my favorite neighborhood kids, Gigantinho and Belsa, were in a motorcycle accident with their father. Gigantinho came away with just a wound on his forehead that is healing nicely. Belsa, on the other hand, has half of her face covered in bandages. The skin on half her face is totally off and one of her nostrils is mostly gone. As I told their mom, I am relieved that solely aesthetic parts of them were injured, but it is still pretty bad. The risk of infection and who knows what else with the not up to par care they received at the health center makes my heart break. Any sort of reconstruction is clearly a pipe dream and out of the question, and that is why any sort of skin ailment, burns, or a guy I saw with massive growths all around his face, are secondary to other complaints and illnesses. But they are kids, and resilient, and I am not too worried about permanent damage. It is still shitty and scary, and why you can get kicked out of Peace Corps for riding motorcycles.